Future in an Uncanny Valley
What in the science of aesthetics tends to be called "Uncanny Valley" is a phenomenon linked to the inner discomfort felt by man in the face of things that seem to have some human semblance, but which in reality are only vaguely close to resembling it. Reasoning through a less circumscribed imaginary version of this phenomenon and the feeling of despondency generated by it, the book in question chooses to group and present a dose of general existential pessimism, reasoning on a human, global, social, and non-human scale. All of this, told through a variegated Cyberpunk aesthetic, which adapts well to the climate of human discomfort that is intended to be encapsulated through the digital manuscript in question.
What in the science of aesthetics tends to be called "Uncanny Valley" is a phenomenon linked to the inner discomfort felt by man in the face of things that seem to have some human semblance, but which in reality are only vaguely close to resembling it.
Reasoning through a less circumscribed imaginary version of this phenomenon and the feeling of despondency generated by it, the book in question chooses to group and present a dose of general existential pessimism, reasoning on a human, global, social, and non-human scale. All of this, told through a variegated Cyberpunk aesthetic, which adapts well to the climate of human discomfort that is intended to be encapsulated through the digital manuscript in question.
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21
IOT”, NO.1
QUARTETS
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
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